Pandora
by x-0
Summary: Canon AU: Eames is a prostitute who just wants to be normal. Normalcy is...kind of not an option when Arthur is involved.


**Title**: Pandora**  
><strong>**Disclaimer**: Inception (c) Chris Nolan  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Eames/Arthur, Eames/Nash, Arthur/Mal, Cobb/Mal, Yusuf, others  
><strong>Genres<strong>: Canon AU  
><strong>Rating<strong>: R  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: secondary character death/prostitution/infidelity  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Eames prefers the term _prostitute_ instead, only because it's simpler. Despite what Arthur might think about him being not simple and complex, Eames is simple before he is anything else. His being a _forger_carries implications that he has not, does not, and hopes to never consider. (Or, in which Eames attempts to be a normal prostitute, and fails, quite spectacularly. Everything is Arthur's fault.)

*

They meet in an austere hotel room, one of Arthur's choosing. When Eames gives Arthur's name at the desk, the receptionist just slides over a key card in an envelope, no questions asked. He goes up to the twelfth floor by the way of a glass elevator and finds himself in an executive suite at the end of the hall. The suite is large and expensively furnished, but very sparse, adhering to a monochrome scheme of mostly restrained shades of beige.

After pouring himself some Scotch from the bar, Eames hunts the room for any sense of personality, but he doesn't find much. He does find two suits in the closet, both charcoal, bespoke.

He's suddenly very aware that there's a gun digging into his back, and Eames looks into the mirror. This must be Arthur, he thinks, wearing yet another suit and a grim face. Eames has only spoken to him on the phone once or twice, but he felt he had already known this man his whole life.

"Hands where I can see them," says Arthur. His voice sounds young.

"Easy," Eames raises his hands. "Easy. Okay. Hands, see?"

The heavy pressure is gone from his back, and Arthur takes a few steps back. Although he hasn't exactly received the permission to do so, Eames takes the liberty of turning around. Arthur doesn't look like much, his face is too smooth, but the scent of danger clings to him. Since the apology that Eames is half-heartedly waiting for doesn't come, he takes the plunge.

"If that gun is joining us, darling, I'm going to have to charge you extra, and set down a few rules."

"I'm not hiring you for real sex," says Arthur. He puts the gun down on the dresser and goes to the bed. "I've been told by a very reliable source that you provide other things for the right people."

Eames looks him up and down. "It isn't real," he begins, the beginning of a long preamble he has recited many times over. "You understand that. No matter how good I am at my job."

"I know." Arthur doesn't offer anymore than that.

"Who gave you my name?"

"Nash."

_Nash_, the name is so bland that Eames has to take a moment, and then he remembers. Nash is the guy who always comes in wanting Eames to forge some pretty boy with an ambiguous face. Nash isn't picky, so long as Eames meets a certain criteria. Someone like Nash knowing someone like Arthur, the whole equation seems a little off.

"If you know Nash, you must know that I have a list of people I don't forge. Personal reasons."

Arthur takes out his wallet, hands him a picture. It's old, a bit crinkled around the edges. The photograph is of a woman wearing a sleek black dress and holding a champagne flute. Even without the presence of her diamond earrings, Eames can tell that she is an expensive woman. "What about her?"

"She's lovely," says Eames. "Yes, I can. What is her name?"

Arthur hesitates, "Àmelie."

"Like the film?"

"Yes, like the film."

So, the woman is Àmelie. "Would you like to tell me more about her? Helps with authenticity."

"Authenticity doesn't matter," Arthur shrugs. "You're not her, anyway."

Eames goes and sits besides Arthur on the bed. He leaves ample space between them, "You know, Arthur, this is the part where my clients spill their innermost secrets in exchange for their loved ones."

"I am not in love with her," says Arthur. "And I'm unlike anyone you've ever met."

"In my line of work, I meet a lot of people."

Arthur gives him a look, "Maybe it's better for you to go along with whatever it is I have to say. Isn't it how you people make money?"

"If I were just one of those people, you would not have come to me."

Arthur leaves his seat on bed to rummage in his bag. His PASIV-device is noticeably newer than the one Eames keeps with him, but Eames knows not to be jealous. In thirty seconds, it's up and running. Of course, it doesn't escape Eames that his challenge goes unanswered.

"Shall we, Mr. Eames?"

Eames closes his eyes.

*

They're at a party, and Eames is a woman. To be more specific, he's Àmelie from Arthur's photograph, but instead of wearing the black dress, his Àmelie is wearing dark blue. He keeps the earrings, and adds a pair of silver heels for flair. The string quartet in the corner is playing some sort of Viennese Waltz.

Arthur materialises at his elbow. He hands Eames a drink and says, "Here, your favourite."

"Thank you, darling." Eames prefers his wines full; Àmelie prefers hers light and sweet.

The crowd is thinning, and there is dancing. Eames admires the flourish of rhythmic colours whirling around them. Eames is thankful he doesn't have to dance in his heels. He takes Arthur's arm, and Arthur lets him. Because he's Àmelie, apparently, and Arthur isn't in love with her.

"Do I dance?"

"With two left feet, unfortunately," Arthur smiles. "But that's all right, I don't like dancing myself." He says something else too, but Arthur has a nice smile. So long as Eames has got Àmelie to give him an excuse, he's going to help himself.

" - You're really content to do this all night, be around other people?"

Arthur's step stutters, "You've gotten so bold."

"Sorry."

Arthur makes him nervous, and Eames usually takes his gut to heart simply because no one makes him nervous. Nervousness is not a good trait to have when one makes his living pretending to be strangers he's never met, never will meet, and having sex with different strangers as a stranger. It's all gloriously confusing, and he kind of loves it. But once in a while, a client like Arthur comes along and gives him a heart attack.

"Let's go then." Arthur takes his hand, and Eames is suddenly very aware of the callouses on the tips of Arthur's fingers. "I have a room upstairs."

Eames giggles.

Arthur's steps stutter again, but he doesn't stop and they make it all the way to the elevator before Arthur kisses him. Arthur's the type of man who probably kisses differently for every girl, and the way he kisses Àmelie makes Eames want to curl up and weep. His woman-hands with perfectly manicured nails come up to grasp at Arthur's collar, and when Arthur finally lets him go, Eames has to take a moment and _breathe_.

"All right?" says Arthur, his voice is different. The voice that he probably uses with women he does (not) love.

"Fine," says Eames. The elevator opens to the eighth floor and they catch a maid just leaving Arthur's room. She tells them to ring if they need anything, anything at all.

They go in.

Arthur kisses him again, and Eames lets him, he lets the straps of Àmelie's dress fall from his shoulders and Arthur's lips and his hands are everywhere at once. His lips and hands fill Eames with a strange sort of ache that'd probably still linger long after he's woken up.

It's strange to be naked in another person's body, but Eames has been at this so long. He's got to be used to this by now. He's naked on the bed, and Arthur's face is buried between his legs, his tongue is wonderfully skilled and Eames says, "Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. _Oh_." in a voice that isn't his.

Arthur seems to like it, but Eames can't be sure. Arthur is almost fully dressed, because apparently undressing for sex isn't fashionable anymore, but Eames feels Arthur take him - take Àmelie, but Arthur just stares at him with oddly vacant eyes as they rock together.

Eames shuts his eyes. Maybe Arthur isn't in love with her.

Arthur comes. His orgasm is methodical, quick, warm. Eames hopes he doesn't really have sex like this in real life. It's almost like bloody fucking a corpse, even if the corpse is gorgeous.

Arthur mumbles something against his collarbone.

"I'm sorry?" says Eames, pitching her voice just right, and adding just a dash of curiosity.

"I didn't say anything."

"I thought you did."

"I didn't."

Eames watches as Arthur pulls out a gun from nowhere, the same gun from the real hotel, and puts it against his forehead.

"It was nice to see you," Arthur says. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye, love."

A shot goes off.

*

Arthur is counting out bills for him, the exact amount. He looks impeccable in a suit, and all the wrinkles that Àmelie has tried so hard to immortalise in his clothing are moot. Maybe Arthur's the kind of person who only has sex in dreams. In which case, Eames is very sorry.

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Yes," says Arthur.

Eames takes his money. Stands up. "She wasn't anything like I was, wasn't she?"

Arthur tilts his head and looks at him, "That doesn't concern you."

"It does," Eames corrects him. "If my clients are unsatisfied. We can do this again, I have time. Just tell me what you want, Arthur." Arthur hurts his professional pride; also, Eames likes to _know_ things, he's barely scratched the surface of this woman, if at all.

"You should leave now," says Arthur, unyielding. "Don't ask me what I want."

Since the gun is still too close to Arthur, Eames obeys. He takes his money, and shuts the door quietly behind him.

*

Eames and Nash have a strange relationship. They sleep together professionally, but other times, they can be friends. They meet once a week for coffee in a coffeehouse that's always trying too hard. No one of interest will ever find them here. They sit outside, because Nash can't go one hour without sucking on a cigarette.

This time, Eames arrives five minutes late and finds his order already waiting for him. After much cajoling by various unrelated people, he's starting to warm up to black coffee, it burns like whiskey, if you have the right imagination.

"Hey," says Nash. "What kept you?"

"Client," Eames tells him. "Who's Àmelie?"

"Who?" Then a light of recognition comes into Nash's eyes. "Arthur came and saw you? He told you her name was Àmelie?"

So the woman's name isn't Àmelie. Which would explain why Arthur's never said her name in the dream, Eames leans forward on his elbows. "Who is she?"

Nash shrugs, "None of us really know."

That's code for either Nash not being able to tell him, not wanting to tell him, or that he really doesn't know. Not only that, no one knows. Eames decides not to press the issue, for now, anyway. He settles on an easier question instead, "Who's Arthur?"

"Someone I work with," says Nash.

Eames has seen Nash's work. He builds the dreamscapes for Eames' pretty boy renditions and takes him wherever he wants to go. Last week, they'd went on a cruise around the lesser known Caribbean islands. Nash doesn't only build only for his own pleasure, he builds for money, and that's where things get complicated. (Eames does the same thing, admittedly, but that's hardly the same.)

"Not a recruitment scout in disguise, then?"

"Trust me," Nash smiles a crooked smile. He's stupidly attractive in a way that Eames likes, only because Nash is mostly mindless. "Arthur wouldn't get you with something like sex."

"Too simple?" Eames takes a sip of his drink.

"Arthur's like that," Nash makes a face. "I only thought he'd like a bit of fun. Thought he'd get a kick out of you, or some shit."

"You sent him to me for some _fun_."

Nash laughs, "Judging by your face, not much fun was had."

_Aren't you bloody brilliant,_ Eames thinks, but only grins out loud. "I'll make a believer out of him yet."

*

Eames forges perfect husbands for wealthy wives, but his dreamscapes are mostly mediocre. A cheap imitation of an airport Marriot is really all he can manage, but no one complains about that. They don't come for the scenery.

But once in a while, the more desperate women want to feel a man in real life, so Eames is standing naked in some woman's shower when his mobile rings.

_Incoming Call: Unknown_

Eames isn't worried; his line of work gets him a lot of those.

"Yes?"

There is a slight pause on the other end, "Eames?"

With his free hand, Eames wipes away fog caking the bathroom mirror in front of him. He thinks he recognises the voice. "Who's this?"

"This is Arthur."

"Ah, yes. Arthur, darling, how are you?"

There is another pause, a slightly longer one than before, "If you are free this evening, might I buy you dinner?"

Eames quirks an eyebrow at himself in the mirror, "Will there be sex for dessert?"

It's been a little more than a month since he's heard anything from Arthur, but figures it's worth a try. Eames imagines the other man looking mildly displeased, maybe even a little flattered.

"If you behave yourself during dinner, I'll take it into consideration."

"You're too kind."

They make plans to meet at eight-thirty at a Thai restaurant Eames has never heard of next to Heathrow. Arthur knows how to keep a date on his toes, and Eames thinks that he likes that in a man.

*

Arthur doesn't show up until nine-fifteen, and there's a telltale bruise on the side of jaw. Actually, that's a lie. The rest of him looks put together, but Eames doesn't think that Arthur is the type to go wherever he is going with any sort of imperfection lingering on his skin. Arthur doesn't apologise, he just sits, flags down a waiter for Singha in a glass.

"I'm surprised you waited."

"It's your lucky night, love. I've got nothing planned." Eames shrugs. "What happened to your face?"

Arthur takes a sip of his pale beer in a bloody wineglass, "I fell. Sideways. Awkward angle."

Eames takes another look. Arthur is gripping his wineglass with fingers that have cuts on them, knuckles that are freshly torn. "I see."

"I'd rather you not ask any more questions." Arthur looks him up and down. Eames is glad he did decide to go with his best suit for the evening, otherwise he wouldn't have put in so much effort. Clothes did not matter much, either. "...Are you happy, the way things are, Mr. Eames?"

"So," Eames is mildly amused. "I'm not allowed to ask you questions. But apparently this rule doesn't apply to you. That's not quite fair."

"I didn't think you'd care about things like that," Arthur says with a small twitch of surprise.

"I'm glad I can surprise you, being so simple." says Eames.

Arthur puts down his glass, "Someone like Nash is simple, Eames. You are hardly. Won't you answer my question?"

Eames looks at Arthur. Arthur has said to him _don't ask me what I want_, but in that one moment, Eames thinks he sees it. Arthur wants everything, and holds nothing. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

"Are you happy?" _Do you think I am happy?_ is the ironic echo that comes after.

"With my life? Sure. Yes, I am. Sometimes, people like you even come around and make life moderately interesting." Later, Eames is going to regret saying that. But later isn't now, so it's all right.

"What's the most important thing about being a forger?"

Eames has heard that term before, _forger_. He prefers the term _prostitute_ instead, only because it's simpler. Despite what Arthur might think about him being not simple and complex, Eames is simple before he is anything else. His being a _forger_ carries implications that he has not, does not, and hopes to never consider.

"Finding something about a person so you can love him as yourself. Anyone can do it."

Arthur quirks a half-smile at him, "You make it sound so easy."

"It is easy."

There is silence. Arthur breaks it by having the waiter refill his wineglass. This time, he remembers Eames and orders another wineglass with Singha to be brought to their table. Eames is not fond of beer, but he can return to his cola later.

"My telling you all this is bad for business," says Eames. "Nash told me this might happen."

"What might?"

"Your recruiting me for illegal means, although I was sort of hoping you'd bribe me with mind blowing sex."

Arthur snorts, "If Nash already told you that much, he should have told you that this isn't the way I do things."

Eames smiles easily. He's almost sure that this is Arthur's version of playing hard-to-get, but he's been through thousands of variations. He has no doubt that he's going to find Arthur's niche, sooner or later. "He did, but what can I say? I'm an optimist."

"You're full of shit," says Arthur, but there's an odd lightness in his voice.

"Maybe," Eames says. "But you're still here, aren't you?"

"I'm good at getting what I want." Now Arthur just sounds _smug_. Eames likes it; it's something different, something that he hadn't expected Arthur to do.

Eames really isn't a big fan of the beer, but he manages not to wince, "And you want me, that's...flattering. No thanks, though. Like I said, I'm perfectly happy." Arthur wants Eames in the same way that Arthur isn't in love with not-Àmelie.

Arthur looks shocked, as if no one has ever told him 'No' in his lifetime. "You'd rather be a prostitute and that makes you happy." It's not so much offensive as it is...something else. Eames isn't sure what.

"I'm not like you, Arthur. I don't wish for the bigger things in life." Eames shrugs, "I'm a practical whore, and I'm not like those people in films."

"You don't know what I wish in life," Arthur's whole expression tenses up, like he has swallowed something sour.

"But I do, it's what I love most about you." Eames thinks that this is a good time to leave. He stands up and downs the rest of his beer as penance. "I think I've better go, thank you for dinner."

*

Eames is surprised that Arthur lets him go, just like that, but he isn't sorry. However, he is sorry that he probably won't have an opportunity to sleep with Arthur in real life, but that's another story entirely.

Usually, Nash hires him on Thursday nights, and he likes it when Eames surprises him with new faces. For tonight, he is wearing a face of a young Spanish boy with a Grecian nose. He has light hair streaked by too much sun, and a soft accent. He calls himself Diego, pretends to have run away from Barcelona. Nash is his saviour and he's going to make everything all right.

Nash takes "Diego" to Hong Kong, and romances him with sweet-sticky moon cakes and steam buns. Eames plays Diego until the sex is over and the two of them are up on a balcony sharing a post-coital cigarette. Eames doesn't think Diego really smokes, but for Nash Diego is going to make an exception. It's in character.

"Doing this really makes you happy."

"Not you too," says Eames. And just like that, he's not Diego anymore. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you and Arthur are fucking."

"Maybe we are," Nash shoots him a smug glance.

"He'd never fuck someone like you."

"Touché."

Not really. If Nash wasn't paying him so generously, Eames would have dropped him as a client a long time ago. It's more like he knows from first-hand experience why _not_, but figures he won't hurt Nash's feelings. After all, he's still a client.

"Our forger died in Paris Monday afternoon."

His dinner with Arthur had been Monday night.

"Wonderful," Eames goes back into the hotel room and pours himself a shot of vodka. "Someone dies and you're looking to me for a replacement. Not exactly a selling point, darling. Nash, we've had this conversation before."

"This time it's _different_," Nash insists.

"It's always different," Eames snorts. "If Arthur wants it so badly, tell him to ask me himself."

Nash says, "He did. You said no."

Eames grins, even when Nash's gun digs into his temple. "Tell him to try again."


End file.
